


Parking Lot Dinner Theatre

by Ravenesta



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, The Manfred Family Soap Opera Comes To Town, david cage suck my dick challenge, the precinct has one will to live between them and they all have to share, there's only so many times you can say fuckin' in a conversation gavin, this precinct is detroit nine-nine and none of you can tell me otherwise, why. why do these people swear so much.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15224255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenesta/pseuds/Ravenesta
Summary: Connor is late, Gavin makes a bad bust, and the Manfreds learn that the real family was the junkie little brothers you made along the way.Somewhere, in the distance, Jeffrey Fowler is writing a detailed list of the pros and cons of auto-defenestration. He will have it framed and hung within the week, and he will longingly stare at it for comfort each and every day until his retirement.





	Parking Lot Dinner Theatre

Connor and Hank return from their lunch break a little after one in the afternoon. They step into the precinct, and immediately into chaos.

Approximately nobody in the bullpen is even pretending to do their work, up to and including Fowler, who has his forehead pressed flat to his desk, doing a very good impression of someone who has absolutely no will to live whatsoever. Everyone else has angled themselves towards the holding cells, trying to catch a glimpse of today’s workplace theatre.

Connor hears, in quick succession, these three things:

The voice of a young male, hoarsely screaming, “Hey! _Fuck_ you, fuckin’ pig, you can’t pin _shit_ on me! You got nothing, get your fuckin’ hands off me, piece a’ shit–”

Then, the brief noises of a scuffle, possibly someone’s shoulder being thrown against the glasteel cell door, the sound of a fist connecting with flesh, a grunt which a brief analysis confirms is Officer Miller’s.

Finally, Detective Reed’s voice, yelling, “Oh, fuck _this!”_ followed by the sound of more grappling, and finally, the cell door sliding open and shut.

Connor absorbs all of this information, turns to Hank, and says mildly, “Someone is making a scene.” It is a largely unnecessary statement – anyone in the immediate vicinity would’ve been able to draw the same conclusion. It is also very vague. Connor is finding that he enjoys making vague, unnecessary comments, in the same way that he enjoys being late back from his lunch break, and even being unaware of the time beyond ‘a little after one’. There’s a certain personal flair to imprecision.

Hank huffs a laugh, raising his eyebrows and grinning. “Sure sounds like it. Wanna go see what’s up?” The smirk, and the way Hank’s voice drops confidentially, makes it sound like they’re scheming. Connor is finding that he also enjoys scheming. It’s dramatic. It frequently results in making a scene – or making one worse. It also frequently results in unpleasant visits to Captain Fowler’s office, but sacrifices must be made.

“What’s up,” turns out to be a white male, age 25 to 35, who is alternating between slamming his hands against the cell door and getting into a sneering contest with Detective Reed. The man has three days of beard growth and a large bruise on his face. He clearly has not bathed for quite some time, his eyes are watering, he is constantly sniffing, and he is unsteady on his feet, tilting forward and leaning his weight on the glass. He is, as Reed had once phrased and Connor had subsequently stolen for future use, _high as the fucking Challenger and about as ready to crash._ Connor absently notes that despite his clothes being absolutely filthy, and torn in some places, they’re high-end brands, jacket alone costing well over a thousand dollars.

As soon as he notices Connor and Hank’s approach, the man changes tack, baring his teeth at the three of them and starting to rant again. His speech is slightly slurred. “Fuck you. Fuck all of you. You don’t have shit on me.” He meets Connor’s eyes. “What the fuck you looking at, plastic? Yeah, real fuckin’ funny, me being in here, just wait til’ someone smashes your fuckin’ head in, tear you to pieces you hunk of fucking–”  
  
“Alright, knock it off,” Reed interrupts, stepping bodily between Connor and the cell door, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “That’s a fucking detective you’re mouthing off at, android or not, so watch it.”

Connor glances at Reed in open surprise. Well, this is a turn. Apparently, Reed’s open animosity towards him cuts off at the point where someone else is doing the insulting. When it came down to the two of them and a hostile outsider, Reed was closing ranks, taking his side. It was a surprisingly pleasant feeling.

Reed’s leaning against the cell door now, posture relaxed and confident. “Look, dickweed, even if you weren’t higher than the fucking CyberLife tower right now–”

(Connor makes a note. He likes that one, too.)

“–we’d still have you for public indecency, possession, assault of an officer, and resisting arrest. Your bail’s already paid, so just sit fucking pretty until daddy or whoever comes and picks you up, stop trying to start shit. I said you weren’t a flight risk, but believe me, that can fuckin’ change.”

The man sneers again, but doesn’t resume his shouting, which is a marked improvement.

Hank, leaning against the wall behind Connor, juts his chin towards the cell. “What, daddy’s loaded?” He asks Reed, who steps away from the cell, moving closer to Hank and lowering his voice.

“Something like that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Pretty sure it was the father’s number we had, and whoever was on the other end paid him out on the spot, said he’d be right over to grab him. If daddy’s fuckin’ money gets him off with community service or whatever the fuck, I’m gonna flip my shit.”

Connor tries to refrain from being too invasive unless absolutely necessary, as it tends to make people uncomfortable. He has also noticed that his interactions with his colleagues tend to go better when he lets them talk to him about things, rather than scanning to find out specifics; he himself tends to prefer this, enjoying the personal quirks that humans put on objective facts. Reed has also personally told him to “butt out of his fucking cases” on multiple occasions.

Despite all of this curiosity gets the better of him, and he scans the perp. He is not disappointed.

_Leopold “Leo” Manfred / age 28 / [unemployed]_

Connor raises his eyebrows once, quickly, a learned expression from Hank, and says, “It won’t be daddy that’s picking him up.” He starts to meander back towards his desk. It is vague to the point of being outright cryptic, followed by an immediate exit from the conversation. This absolutely delights Connor. He thinks he might be developing a taste for theatrics.

Thirty-odd minutes later – Connor pointedly does not care to check the specifics beyond a brief glance at the digital clock on his terminal – Markus’ arrival is announced by the slightly awestruck silence that falls over the bullpen, broken only by Hank’s quiet, “Shit, here we go.”

He’s dressed more casually than he usually is out in public, forgoing the dramatic long coats and sharp, asymmetrical panelling for a more subtle, understated jean-jacket combo, all in black. His face is – well. It’s not as though Markus doesn’t have a negative range of emotions, and Connor has personally seen the man terse, upset, frustrated enough to snap and even shout, but the slight scowl on his face has an edge of malice that makes Connor want to stay out of the warpath. Despite this, the man is his friend of a sort, and Connor pings him across the network, the android equivalent of a polite wave from across the room.

He finds himself brushed off as Markus strides right towards Reed’s desk. “I’m here to pick up Leo,” he announces, largely unnecessarily.

Reed, for his part, regains his composure admirably, only staring dumbly for a few seconds before he shakes himself, standing and saying, “Right, fuck, okay. Someone should be able to get the paperwork…” He makes a vague motion towards the bullpen, where one of the beat cops milling around immediately springs into action, beelining for the front desk.

Reed and Markus head towards the holding cells, and while Connor had been perfectly content to listen to this unfold from the safety of his desk, Hank stands to follow them, which unfortunately means Connor is morally obligated to go with him.

If Leo and Markus have noticed that their whole day just became a spectator sport, they haven’t said anything about it. By the time Connor slips into the hallway beside Hank, they’re at each other’s throats already, Leo pressed up against the glass, Markus looking down at him impassively, both of them hissing at each other in low, angry tones.

“–not fucking going anywhere with _you,_ motherfucker,” Connor catches from Leo.

“I will _drag_ you if I have to, Leo, don’t make an ordeal out of this–”

“Make an _ordeal?_ Fuck you, think you’re so fucking perfect, you don’t give a _shit_ about me, just your precious fucking image–”

“Maybe _I_ don’t care about how you’ve decided to ruin your life this week, Leo, but our _dad_ does.” Markus’ frown changes into something self-righteous, confused, and disappointed all at once. Connor has been on the receiving end of that look. He does not blame Leo for the way he falters slightly under the intensity of it.

“Really, Leo,” Markus says, one eyebrow raised. “Dad is _dying._ Is this really how you want him to remember you? High, violent, and angry? Is this how _you_ want to remember your last months with _him?_ In a goddamn _haze?”_

Connor, distinctly uncomfortable, looks away and accidentally catches Detective Reed’s eyes, finding his own desperate awkwardness reflected right back at him. Reed’s eyes flick deliberately towards Markus and Leo, then back to Connor, eyes going wide and lips pursing in an expression that very distinctly reads, _what the fuck is happening._ He realizes that he is having a silent conversation, and almost instinctively gives a slight shrug, allowing his face to show a bewildered grimace, hoping to communicate, _I have no idea, but I would like it to stop._

Reed’s head shakes minutely, and he shifts in the hallway, moving so he is almost shoulder to shoulder with Connor. This is interesting. He appears to have formed a tenuous alliance with Reed on two basic premises:

  1. They are both police officers.
  2. They are both uncomfortable with notable public figures conducting their family soap opera in a public space.



It’s not much, but Connor almost hopes it will last beyond the current situation. He’s rather enjoying the feeling of camaraderie. It’s like the conspiratorial pleasure of scheming, but with less explicit drama. He thinks, that for the moment, at least, Reed ‘has his back,’ which is a phrase Connor has never been reassured by, but he suddenly understands the sentiment.

Leo spits at Markus, which accomplishes very little besides getting himself sprayed with his own spittle as it hits the glass.

Someone with a strong self-preservation instinct presses a tablet into Reed’s hands and immediately disappears from the hallway. Reed breathes a sigh of relief, stepping between the two Manfreds and going over the release paperwork with Markus. He quickly falls into the clipped professionalism Reed seems to be able to show to the public when it’s required of him, voice quiet and steady while Markus signs what he needs to.

The cell door is unlocked, and while Leo glares at Markus and Reed, he does not struggle as an officer leads him away down the hall to collect his possessions. Reed puts a hand on Markus’ forearm, stopping him before he can follow.

“Look,” Reed sighs, staring vaguely to Markus’ left, avoiding his eyes, “This is a longtime thing, right?”

Markus just _looks_ at Reed for a moment, considering, before he replies, “Since college. It’s why he dropped out.”  
  
Markus talks like this sometimes, and it makes Connor uncomfortable for reasons he cannot describe. Something about how he makes it sound like he _grew up_ with Leo, like he was there when he fell off the rails. Maybe it’s the fact that Connor can almost imagine it – Markus, younger, a father and a brother and a _childhood._ Something about that is viscerally wrong.

Reed shakes his head. “Look, I know it’s none of my fuckin’ business, but I’ve been working Red Ice for a long time, I know the way it fucks people up. If he rats out his dealer, the judge’ll give him community service, he won’t do any time. Just. Get him in a good rehab program. You’re loaded, so get him the best, and make sure he _stays_ in it.”

Another long, agonizing moment, before Markus nods once, sharply. “Thank you, Detective Reed.”

Reed waves him off, nodding for Markus to follow him back towards the front desk, and Connor takes that as his cue to head back into the bullpen. Markus and Hank seem to give each other vague nods as they pass by, and Connor feels Markus ping him goodbye as he goes, brief, warm, and pleasant as he always seems to be with Connor, despite the slight chaos of the last few minutes.

Sat safely at their desks, Connor and Hank sit in silence, contemplating their choices in life.

“Manfred fucking family drama,” Hank grouses, shaking his head. “I thought I’d get some good gossip. I thought there was scandal. Now I’m just _sad.”_

“Mood,” Connor says, because it is vague and completely meaningless, but somehow conveys exactly what he wants it to. Also, it makes Hank make a face like he can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or cry. This is amusing for reasons that Connor does not care to examine.

Everyone around Connor seems to believe he should express his emotions, for some reason. The only person he knows who does not do this is North, who believes that emotions other than ‘gun’ and ‘rage’ should be conveyed on a deathbed or not at all. A part of Connor respects this immensely, and out of that respect, keeps his equally immense fear of her to himself.

Finding the vocabulary to talk about his emotions is often difficult, but ambiguity seems to be getting him a lot of results lately, so maybe it’s worth a shot to just talk about it as imprecisely as possible.

“I thought I didn’t understand how humans worked,” he tries, and finds that he’s on solid ground. “But… Maybe it’s just people. I don’t understand how people work.” It has no nuance whatsoever. It is utterly bizarre sounding. It is the sort of slogan that belongs on an obnoxious t-shirt that Hank would have owned when he was twenty. Hank is, in fact, laughing at him.

And yet. It works. Connor has verbally expressed his inner emotional conflict with some degree of accuracy. Absolutely fascinating.

Detective Reed returns to the bullpen, headed towards his desk and already hunched over the tablet in his hands. As he passes by, he half-turns, giving Connor a _look._ It’s wide-eyed and harried, and it says, in no uncertain terms, _I was going to throw the fucking book at this asshole, and now I have to convince some judge to go easy on the local revolutionary’s junkie little brother because fuck my life, I’m involved in their business now._

Connor raises one eyebrow, and gives a lazy two-finger salute. _Godspeed._

“O-kay.” Hank blinks at him slowly, expression mildly disturbed. “You don’t understand how people work, but Gavin, you get him just fine.”

Connor considers this for a moment, head tilted to one side. “It’s rather bold of you to assume I would consider Detective Reed a person.”

**Author's Note:**

> gavin's a piece of shit and i hate him but you've never lived until you've bonded with a coworker that you hate over how much you both hate the situation you're in, that shit's ride-or-die


End file.
